The Come and Go Room
by eternalchange
Summary: "Sometimes it is there, and sometimes it is not …" – Dobby (OotP Ch. 18). Drabbles about anything and everything related to the world of Harry Potter, whenever they strike my fancy. Prompts are welcome!
1. Eenie Meenie Miney Mo (Gen)

Notes: Founders' era, Gen (Rowena/Helga if you turn your head sideways and squint through translucent glass)

* * *

 **Eenie Meenie Miney Mo**

"Boys!"

The admonishment rang harshly through the room, and the individuals in question flinched and turned away from each other, still muttering darkly under their breaths.

The fourth occupant, a usually austere-looking woman, was slumped into her favourite squashy armchair with her eyes closed, rubbing her temples tiredly.

The first woman, red-haired and dressed in resplendent black robes, looked the very picture of fiery rage, with arms crossed tightly below a generous bosom and icy blue eyes flashing ominously.

"By Merlin, one would think that after _ten years_ , some semblance of maturity would prevail, but that is evidently too much to hope from the two of you. How would your students judge you if they were to see you quarrelling like fledgling first years? No," she commanded upon seeing their mouths open, "you will both sit down— _sit down, Godric_ —and you will both listen. If I have to separate the two of you one more time, the house elves of this castle will be directed to disregard your orders forevermore."

"Helga, you are not in earnest, surely?" Salazar—for that was who had spoken—decried, aghast.

"I assure you, the house elves will be the least of your problems if you both do not pull yourselves together and have the courtesy to at least pretend to act like the adults you are! I am sick and tired of this … this … truly unbecoming ruffian-like ruckus that you insist on making every single time! Rowena and I are perfectly capable of settling our differences in a civilised fashion, and there is no reason the two of you cannot do the same. Now," she hissed, a gimlet eye affixed on each, "I will not tolerate such ridiculous displays in the future, so you will desist. Rowena, dear?"

The furrowed lines on the fair woman's face had smoothed out somewhat in the relative calm, and she gave her friend a warm smile. "Yes, love?"

"Are you able to suggest any resolution? Although it is the boys that get into disputes over the students they wish to claim, it will likely help us all if we are able to find a method that will sort the more ambiguous students into their suited houses fairly."

Rowena hummed thoughtfully, absently twisting a lock of her dark hair. "A spell would not be difficult, but it would be improper as the caster would invariably influence the magic. Potions are unusable for similar reasons. I would consider runes to be excessive for such a common task, and in any case, its uses are best suited to warding. The most worthwhile alternative would be an artefact, charmed to sort the students."

"I agree," Salazar spoke up silkily, if a little sullen. "It will have to be charmed by each of us independently and in concert, so that it is able to discern the students' characteristics and match them to those prized by our houses. I suggest a piece of jewellery of some kind. Something that may be applied and removed readily, like a chain, with a sufficiently large locket to display the name of the chosen house."

Godric scoffed. "Sal, do not bother hiding behind your wily words your intent to put forth your own family locket as an option. Slytherin you may be, but you are as transparent as a ghost." He wisely refrained from continuing in that vein at Helga's warning glare. "No, I fear something quite so grandiose would not put the children at ease. How about an item that is familiar, like a robe, or a hat? Such an item could conveniently be made to change into the respective colour, or show the name of the most befitting house."

"Both proposals are rational," Rowena agreed diplomatically. "However, matters would be greatly simplified if a piece of parchment and quill were used. Far more practical, wouldn't you concur?"

Helga nodded. "Indeed. However, as it is their inaugural ceremony into the school, mayhap something a little more fancy? A paintbrush and canvas, perhaps?"

"All are sound," Salazar grumbled irritably, now looking like he wanted nothing more than for the matter to be concluded. "Nonetheless, the fact remains that we now have to select one amongst this veritable array of choices. A task that our _esteemed_ Helga will not allow to be undertaken by any of our number, I presume?"

The Welsh woman's eyes glittered dangerously. "You presume correctly, _darling_ Salazar. We shall require an impartial citizen to preside over the selection."

"And I have just the candidate," Rowena grinned suddenly. Even Helga felt a moment of apprehension at the rascally glint—it was a look they were all intimately familiar with, and never boded well for anyone.

"Yes?" she inquired cautiously.

"Why, Galien, of course!"

The second of silence after her announcement was followed by Salazar's near-incoherent sputtering. "G-G-Galien? _Our_ Galien? Godric's brat, the mere babe-of-a-few-months Galien?" He snorted inelegantly. "Surely you jest, woman!"

"I do not jest, Salazar. It is for precisely the reason that he is an infant that he will be perfect—after all, he can have no preferences at such a tender age. We will present Galien with the items and whatever he chooses will be our sorting sytem." Her frosty tone brooked no argument.

With nothing more to be said, the remaining three exchanged wary glances before following the Ravenclaw heiress as she swept ahead to the Gryffindor rooms.

Godric's wife, Adelena Gryffindor, was rocking the baby gently. At their entrance, she looked up in startled confusion.

"This is a surprise, Godric!" she exclaimed, rising up to greet them. "What brings you here at this hour? And all four of you, at that!"

"We have a decision of import for little Galien to make," Rowena stated.

"A decision of import? Why, he is as yet unable to discern the dissemblance of my hair to his milk; pray tell what he is charged with deciding!"

Turning a blind eye to Salazar's expression of smug knowing, Rowena said, "We have with us four objects"—they hastily conjured or summoned their preferred talismans—"and merely require Galien to choose one from them—whichever catches his fancy."

The bewilderment had not abated, but Adelena's face now also expressed relief. "Of course." She stepped back and gestured them forward. "As you will."

They each levitated their item and hovered it over the eyes of the now-fascinated infant, all four objects forming a tight square.

Were an outsider to look in at that moment, they would have been incapable of repressing great guffaws of laughter at the comical sight. Five adult witches and wizards stood in a circle around a small babe, each with expressions of great expectation, as though waiting for a momentous occurrence.

Galien was now reaching up, trying to grab or bat at the hanging articles. His tiny fingers finally grasped the dark cloth of Godric's hat. Pulling it to him, he deposited a portion of the rim unceremoniously into his mouth, chewing wetly on it without concern.

… And that, as they say, was that.

* * *

 **A/N:** All the silliness! The Founders' era is one that I absolutely adore and am super intrigued by, so I just couldn't resist. Once again, longer than anticipated, but I quite enjoyed this :p

I cannot for the life of me write in accents, especially with the added factor of them being centuries in the past, but I hope I was able to convey some of that archaic…ness.

Reviews are loved! (And prompts!)


	2. Fly, Little Sparrow (HarryCharlie)

Disclaimer: All credit goes to JKR - I'm just playing in her very exquisitely made sandbox.

* * *

Notes: Muggle AU, Gen

* * *

 **Fly, Little Sparrow**

The first rays of the sun crept into the room, and Harry rubbed his eyes as he squirmed out of his bed. A small hand holding his blanket around him, he snuck out of his room, giggling conspiratorially. Today _he_ was going to wake up his aunt and uncle, not the other way round, because he was a big boy now!

He was reaching up on his toes to open his their bedroom door when he heard his uncle's voice grumbling in irritation.

"—your sister. But of course when she and her 'artist' husband _Potter_ ," he spit, "died in that plane crash, your father had to leave the entire Evans inheritance to your blasted nephew. I wish there was some way around this, because I can't stand that snivelling brat anymore!"

"Shh, Vernon, you'll wake him. If I had my way, you know the boy would have been deposited at an orphanage on the other side of the country at the first instance possible. But we have to endure this—without the allowance, we wouldn't be able to afford half the things we do now. And then where would we be? And our little Dudders? The boy will just have to be put up with for now."

Potter … They were talking about his father! So that meant that the 'brat' they were heatedly discussing was … him.

Clutching his blanket to his chest like a lifeline, Harry mechanically made his way back to his room.

The rest of the day was passed in shell-shocked silence. A haze had settled around his head, as though he was seeing everything through a fog. Through the loud cries of "Happy birthday, Harry!", the rambunctious balloon-and-present-filled party, and his favourite chocolate cake, he could barely muster a half-hearted smile.

Their words rang in his ears continuously. _… can't stand that snivelling brat anymore … deposited at an orphanage on the other side of the country …_ They didn't want him; they never had.

With every minute and subsequent realisation, his heart disintegrated into smaller and smaller fragments, trampled on and crushed into obscurity.

He became a big boy that day.

* * *

Following that fateful day, for reasons they were blissfully unaware of, the Dursleys were left with a curiously pliant and docile nephew. A smile at the appropriate moment, a flawlessly articulated speech at another. He was groomed into a showpiece for his aunt and uncle. A puppet that could be manoeuvred through important functions, a doll that could be dressed and redressed for every occasion, a nameless painting on an overcrowded wall that everyone admired but none understood.

By the time he was eight, not a soul was able to decipher the thoughts that ran behind the respectful stance and placid eyes.

His aunt and uncle were in their element, thriving under the public eye and flitting through high society parties every other week. His own friendships were equally pretentious, as they were mere ornaments meant to adorn, with no emotional attachment. He never regained his closeness with Dudley, who pursued his own interests—namely boxing and other physical sports—and formed his own group of friends among the 'popular' kids.

Harry's education was never compromised; the most prestigious tutors were called upon, and he attended schools of the highest quality and reputation amongst peers of his station.

At ten years old, he was a renowned child prodigy, partaking in science and math competitions with students three years his senior. His teachers nodded sagely to each other, as though they were the reason behind his success. "Mark my words, that boy will go places."

Through it all, a voice whispered to him, speaking of exciting adventures and eye-opening explorations and loving friendships that fluttered just out of his reach. That voice remained locked inside him, however, only given free reign in the quietest, darkest moments of the night, under the watchful light of the stars where he imagined he could sprout wings and soar into the sky.

At all other times, an unbreakable cage surrounded his heart, guarding it fiercely. Nothing and no one would ever get close to breaking it again; he had learned his lesson well the first time.

Five years later, he had become one of the youngest secondary school graduates of the country, presented with all the noteworthy awards and acclaimed scholarships. All the top universities lost no time in vying for the patronage of the famous Evans' money.

Reporters were queued up for weeks to document the awe-inspiring progress of the Evans-Dursley family, culminating with his celebrated graduation. His uncle slung a strong arm over his shoulder and grinned easily at the cameras. His mother flanked his other side, arm wrapped daintily around his waist. The perfect family, fulfilling every idealistic and utopian fantasy across the nation.

The family he hadn't exchanged more than greetings and polite nothings with in years.

His fingers itched to wrench away from their confining, suffocating presence and damn the consequences. Instead, he balled them up into tightly clenched fists, smile stretching that much wider.

* * *

The chauffeur arranged the luggage neatly inside Harry's room by the door and bowed before taking his leave. "Good luck for the coming year, Mr. Evans."

Harry nodded his acknowledgement and dismissal, heard the door click shut, and, uncaring of his crisply pressed white shirt and black slacks, threw himself flat onto one of the two identical white beds.

And groaned.

No one had told him that he would have to _share_ a room. Hogwarts University, the most reputed in all of Great Britain, couldn't give the Evans scion a room to himself?

Still, he couldn't deny the excitement that coursed through his veins at the thought of a completely Dursley-free year. No ridiculous parties to attend or courteous small-talk to engage in. An elated smile broke across his face and his eyes fell shut in contentment.

"Hey, mate! You're my roommate this year, I suppose?"

Harry's eyes shot open in shock. He hadn't heard any footsteps or even the sound of the door being opened. No one had caught him off guard like that in years, and it put him off balance.

"Wh-where did you come from?"

He took in the muscular build and roguish grin, which were at odds with the flaming red hair and strangely youthful aura that he gave off. Probably the dancing blue eyes, he noted absently.

The man—he had to be at least five years older than himself—rolled his eyes. Harry barely refrained an affronted sneer at the gesture. "Through the door," he said, jerking his thumb behind him. "I'm Charlie Weasley, thanks for asking," he added drily.

The muscles of Harry's face clicked back into its familiar stiffness. "Pleased to meet you, Charlie Weasley. My name is Harry Evans."

* * *

 **A/N:** What a depressing start … Represents my current despair with writing Don't Judge a Master by Its Death, the latest chapter of which is currently sitting at about a tenth complete. I'm also very confused about how this got so long—it wasn't meant to go over a few hundred words at the most …

Please leave prompts, and I'll try to use them! And let me know what you think of this drabble :)


	3. Cross My Heart (FrankAlice)

Notes: Gen. Takes place hours after the death of James and Lily, and the temporary defeat of Voldemort by Harry.

* * *

 **Cross My Heart (and Hope to Die)**

BOOM.

The entire foundation of the manor shook.

Alice turned to her husband, eyes wide with terror. "Was that …"

"The wards are breached," Frank confirmed solemnly.

For a moment, it was as though the world had ceased its orbit. The two stared at each other, frozen, neither daring to breathe.

Then, Alice stood, breaking the stillness. "Finky!"

An ancient, hunchbacked house-elf appeared before them. "Mistress called?"

"Yes. We are under attack. In a few minutes, Death Eaters will enter the manor." She lowered herself and looked straight into the house-elf's eyes, her mouth set in a grim line. "They are here for Neville, Finky. You are to protect him; gather Dibbly and Noddy, and protect our son with your lives."

Finky bowed low, her nose almost touching the floor. "It will be as you wish, Mistress. It has been an honour to serve Master and Mistress Longbottom." And with a proud nod, she vanished.

Pulling her to her feet, Frank wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulder. "You are trembling, love."

She gave him a watery smile, turning fully into his embrace. "So are you."

In the middle of the dining hall, they both stood, seeking solace and hope from the other. No words were uttered—not about their fears, their concern for the other, their wishes that the other stayed safe. They knew what was to come, after all, and knew also that no persuasion would sway the other from the path ahead. Instead, they merely held each other, listening to the other's familiar heartbeat and drinking in the loving presence in their arms.

The manor rattled again.

As one, they stepped out of the comforting hold, their clasped hands the only sign of their emotional turmoil.

"I have alerted the Order," Frank said. Unnecessarily, perhaps, since his wife knew him inside out, but Alice nodded.

" _Accio Auror robes_ ," she summoned calmly.

They both dressed quietly and efficiently in quick, practiced movements. It was apt, Alice mused absently, that such a night was accompanied by the deeply rumbling thunder and stark flashes of lightning. A hooded figure was outlined in white by one such flash, and Alice felt a steel resolve travel through her. Beside her, her partner stood tall, wand ready and unafraid.

It was time.

* * *

Hours later, in the still, dark night, oblivious to the baby's shrill cries, the world spun on.

* * *

 **A/N:** This short little piece is dedicated to those affected by the shootings in Paris this morning – my thoughts are with you. Mes pensées sont avec vous pendant cette tragédie, et j'espère que vous, vos familles, vos amis et les autres sont tous en sécurité.

I also have to admit that I find it a bit sad that this is what it has taken for the world to sit up and take notice, when such appalling events have been occurring in other, less 'Western' parts of the world quite frequently. These places are also in my thoughts often, and I hope peace will not be long in coming.


	4. Kiss Me, I'm Irish (SiriusRemus)

Notes: Marauders' era, Humour/Romance (James/Lily in James' dreams, and Sirius/Remus)

* * *

 **Kiss Me, I'm Irish**

"Pads!"

James' excited cry stopped Sirius in his tracks as he entered the red and gold common room. The gleam of inspiration in his best mate's eyes meant one of two things: that a magnificently, spectacularly chaotic Hogwarts was imminent, or that his own (admittedly tenuous) sanity would be severely compromised. Or both. He briefly debated the merits of pretending ignorance and fleeing back out, but in the end chose the path of least resistance.

" 'Lo, Prongs." Sirius walked over, raising a lazy two fingers in salute.

A group of second years exchanged wary glances and unanimously scattered.

James looked ready to vibrate off his seat with his enthusiasm. "Pads, ol' boy, you're laying eyes on unparalleled genius!"

"I'll need a mirror for that," Sirius quipped, wiggling his eyebrows.

James ploughed on, undeterred. "A momentous occasion is to be had, my friend!" Spreading his hands expansively, he crowed, "Today will forever mark the day that I win over the beautiful, breathtaking, incomparable Lily Evans!"

Head in his hands, Sirius groaned. It was one of _those_ days.

* * *

Remus looked on in horror at the train wreck occurring before his eyes.

"Lily-flower, my one true love, did it hurt?"

His fellow prefect ground her teeth irritably. "Potter, what are you on about?"

"When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?"

"Hey, Rem," Sirius spoke up from next to him, looking confused (in front of him, Remus could all but see steam coming out of Lily's ears), "did James just ask Evans if she came back from the dead? Because if so, Muggles have a strange idea of romance."

Calling upon whatever gods may be listening for patience—because unlike what most of the school thought, he did not have an unending reservoir of it—Remus sighed. "No, Padfoot. He was implying that Lily was an angel."

"… What's an angel?"

Unconsciously, he fell into what was jokingly referred to as his 'professor voice'. "According to some Muggles, it's a creature with large white wings that guards heaven."

Sirius' face lit up in understanding. "Ah, so a Veela. Wait, how do Muggles know about Veela, anyway?"

Remus walked to the nearest wall and thumped his head against it repeatedly.

* * *

Finally, night had arrived, and the group of sixth year boys were relaxing in their dorm. Or rather, Peter and Remus were relaxing in their beds, while Sirius tried unsuccessfully to remove the muzzle on James' mouth, spelled there by the unimpressed object of his affections after his seventh pick up line ("If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it agai—mmff!"). In fact, other than turning it into a bright shade of Chudley Cannons orange, Sirius' attempts were in vain.

Finally, he flopped onto the floor. "Sorry, Prongs, it's not coming off. I reckon you'll have to get it fixed by Madam Pomfrey." James whimpered, looking terrified at the prospect.

Remus released a long-suffering sigh; it had barely received a rest today, the poor thing. "Did you not get a clue when Lily threw _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ at your head, Prongs? Or when she, you know, threatened to _hex your mouth shut_?"

James turned woeful eyes on Peter, who rolled his eyes. "Even _I_ knew nothing good was going to come out of it, mate. She was glaring murderous stare number nine—the one that landed you in detention for two weeks with Filch last year, if you remember."

Even behind the muzzle, Remus knew James was pouting. "Stop being an moron—or at least cut it down—and go to bed. Maybe Professor Flitwick will take pity on you and reverse the spell in the morning."

* * *

The incident was never spoken of again, but that didn't mean it had been erased from their minds. At least, it was featuring prominently in Sirius' thoughts, even a week later.

He would never admit it aloud, but he was getting desperate.

No matter what he tried, Remus seemed utterly oblivious. Which was cute, at first. But now, with every witch and wizard at Hogwarts laughing at his blatant attempts at flinging himself onto the werewolf—even the Fat Lady had taken to giggling covertly every time they walked through the portrait hole together—Sirius was at his wits' end. It seemed there was a downside to being a renowned practical jokester after all; he wasn't believed when he truly was being serious.

At the rate it was going, he was going to have to wear a neon sign flashing 'Sirius Black fancies the pants off Remus Lupin' for the idiot to catch on.

But before such drastic measures were needed, he decided that there was one more attempt to be had. After all, Remus Lupin wasn't Lily Evans (for which he was truly grateful), and maybe, _hopefully_ , that would work in his favour.

Aha, right on time! Remus walked past him out of the library, nose deep in a book.

"Hey, Moony, wait up!"

Remus lifted his head, a sceptical look on his face. "What brings you to this corner of the castle, Pads?"

"Quit looking so suspicious, Moony! Can't a bloke want to spend some time with his mate?" Remus opened his mouth to reply with some undoubtedly sarcastic retort, so Sirius kept going. "Besides, I think I'll have to come to the library more often, because I'm definitely checking you out!" He gave him a blatant once-over to ensure that the message was received. Surely he couldn't be any more obvious than that?

If Remus' eyebrows went any further up, they'd be buried in his hair. "Sirius, did you just …" Shaking his head disbelievingly, he stuck his nose back into the book and continued walking.

Sirius gawked after him, dumbfounded. That was it. The time for games was over. Taking his wand out, he cast a spell on Remus' retreating back, forming large green words. Then, running after him, he yanked the back of his shirt and spun him around roughly. Remus' indignant and confused expression was the last thing Sirius saw before he closed his eyes and kissed him.

Concluding that enough time had passed to have made his point sufficiently clear—though he would happily stay attached to Remus' chapped lips for a few more hours—he finally took a step back. At the dazed look on his face, Sirius gave himself a mental pat on the back.

Remus spluttered incoherently. "Wha—you—Sirius?!"

Sirius beamed back. Speechless too! He'd definitely done well. But his friend's face was forming into an angry scowl, and suddenly Sirius wasn't so sure.

"You _kissed_ me! Just what do you think you are playing at, Sirius Orion Arcturus Alphard Black?"

Uh oh, it was the full, extended name. He glanced around nervously for a quick getaway. "Er, I kissed you?"

"Why?" Remus growled, sounding disturbingly similar to his animalistic, bloodthirsty nature.

Sirius loved that sound.

Bad dog, stop getting distracted! "Because I wanted to?" he answered hopefully.

The amber eyes were glittering dangerously now. "And _why_ did you want to?"

Sirius sighed happily at the sight. There was no way around it; he was definitely a masochist. But Moony was being deliberately obtuse now, and that really wouldn't do. He grimaced—he was going to have to bring out Serious Sirius after all.

Pinning his eyes on Remus, he stepped forward until their noses almost touched. "I kissed you," he said firmly, "because I fancy the pants off you. I fancy your eyes, and your mouth, and the way you bite your quill when you're concentrating, and your stupid ratty cardigan, and the way you hoard your Honeydukes chocolate bars, and—mmpf!"

That wonderful, very fanciable mouth was connected to his again, and Sirius wrapped his arms tightly around the wizard it was attached to. His fingers were splayed over the words on the back of Remus' shirt: 'Kiss me, I'm Irish'.

* * *

(As they walked away, mouths kiss-swollen and hands brushing every so often, Remus would ask curiously, "Since when did you fancy me, Sirius? Your type has always been leggy blonds."

And Sirius would answer, eyes dancing mirthfully, "But Moony, _you_ are leggy, _and_ you're a blond!")

* * *

 **A/N:** This little drabble has been nagging me for the past few weeks—specifically the first and last scenes—and I thought, what the heck, a couple of hours of writing won't kill me! Exams are still going strong, and I'm wondering if I _really_ want to be a doctor or just drop out and drive around an ice cream truck (I'm joking … I promise …).

Remus' hair is apparently a light brown (I just checked), but for some reason it's always been a sandy blond in my head, so for this story's sake, that's what it is.

Drop me a comment and let me know what you thought! :)


	5. Darling, It's Better (HarryFred)

Notes: Fem Harry, Humour/Romance (Harry/Fred). Warning for language.

* * *

 **Darling, It's Better (Down Where It's Wetter)**

Harry sprinted, heart beating wildly as she _Accio_ -ed an elastic and gathered her dark hair into a messy bun … thing. She knew it resembled nothing so much as a porcupine, but whatever. There was a spell to create an elegant bun at the top of her head, but the finicky twisting motion of her wand was something she had yet to master. Besides, when Hermione did it for her, bits of hair still stuck out from everywhere.

She had no fucks left to give about the state of her hair, however. Even on a good day it could be a right bitch, and today … today was _not_ a good day, not by any stretch of the imagination. The second task was about to start in less than ten minutes, and she was armed with only her wand and Dobby's dubious jar of slimy-looking greyish-green tangles of 'gillyweed'. She was screwed. A chant of _fuckfuckfuckbloodybuggeringfuck_ drummed in her head as she fairly flew out the oak front doors, trying to ignore the growing stitch in her side.

She skidded to a stop beside the judges' table, speckling everyone's robes with mud. "Bloody fu—er, he—er … bugger," she panted eloquently, valiantly ignoring the disapproving looks from Percy, Madame Maxime, and Karkaroff. Cedric was politely trying to cover a smile, and even the hulking Victor Krum looked a bit less surly. Fleur merely turned up her nose.

"Good girl!" Ludo Bagman beamed, looking more than a little relieved. "Got in a few extra winks, eh, Harry? Not a bad strategy at all – better rested and ready, I say." He clapped her shoulder and moved to sit, oblivious to the incredulous looks from Fleur and Madame Maxime at her dishevelled hair and robes. Probably had bags under her eyes too.

Casting a _Sonorus_ at his throat, Bagman's voice boomed over the crowd as he explained the task. "And now, champions, get ready! One … two … three!"

Everyone burst into action around her, tearing off their robes and jumping into the black water. Of course, they were actually prepared, wearing swimclothes underneath. Thankfully, she _was_ proficient in another spell that Hermione had taught her; saying the spell she found herself in her newly bought swimsuit (Hermione had insisted), her robes probably folded haphazardly on her four-poster bed.

By this time, the other three champions were long gone. She slid her wand into the tiny pocket on her side, water lapping at her toes. Laughter was ringing in her ears as she fumbled with the jar in her had. She took out a handful of the gillyweed and stuffed it into her mouth as she waded into the water. With each step, doubt crept into her. Did Dobby really know what he had been talking about? Was she just going to be stranded here looking like a gormless idiot?

As the thought crossed her mind, a sharp pain erupted under her ears, and suddenly she couldn't breathe, a heavy pressure pushing down on her nose and mouth. _Gills_ , she realised, as she ran her hands experimentally over the ache. _Well then_.

She jumped fully into the water, and regretted it immediately. Morgana's sagging tits, but it was _cold_. Why, oh _why_ was she in this blasted tournament anyway?

When her chest was about to explode from holding her breath, she swallowed a gulp of the icy water. And promptly did a swirling jig as she realised that, yes, she could breathe! Or at least, oxygen was flowing through her somehow, so she wasn't about to die from hypoxia. And the water was comfortably warm around her, like she'd submerged herself in the prefects' bathroom tub. And were those … flippers … on her feet? Webbed hands, too, fuck yeah! Resisting another celebratory jig, she swam further in and dove down into the dark depths.

Around her was a world of grey. With bugger-all to see in any direction, she continued downward. She didn't know how much later it was, but after a close brush with a grindylow and a motherfucking _heart-attack_ -inducing encounter with Moaning Myrtle (who had the audacity to _giggle_ , the evil would-be-murderer), she was finally in front of the four unconscious figures drifting in gently in the water, surrounded by a whole host of spear-wielding merpeople.

 _What the fuck?_ A feeling of absolute confusion washed through her at the sight. When Dobby had said that his 'Wheezy' had been taken, she'd thought it was Ron. Not … _Fred?_

Fred, who made her laugh when she was fighting tears, looked out for her when she was the school's most hated (yet again), cheered her on through her vicious Snape rants and made suggestions of his own, reassured her when everything seemed downright hopeless …

Fuckity fuck.

She had only very recently admitted to herself that she may or may not have a teeny tiny crush – ugh, how she hated that utterly juvenile-sounding word – on the mischievous twin (oh, who was she kidding, she had drawn bloody _hearts_ on her History of Magic essay around his name), and now the whole Merlin-be-damned school would know. Y'know, what with him being the thing she'll 'sorely miss' and all. Forget Hogwarts – even the students of fucking Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would know.

As panic rose, a sudden thought occurred to her. She could take Hermione! They were practically attached at the hip anway – unless the bushy-haired girl was trying to pound Transfigurations theory into her head (at which point she beat a hasty retreat before her quill could find itself accidently embedded into her best friend's heart).

But then, of course, Krum would be without a hostage. Which wouldn't be so bad, really, except she probably ought to let up on the poor guy, because if Hermione truly _was_ his most important person, then he really did like her – and besides, he _had_ put up with the curly blond hair that had plagued him for a week with not-ill grace (a feat of spellwork she was especially proud of, especially since even Hermione couldn't undo it).

Hmm, what to do …

She could … take Cho? But even as the thought formed, she shook her head. Even though the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team and then some knew of her hopeless infatuation with the Ravenclaw seeker, no one would believe that she meant more to her than _Fred_ , let alone Hermione.

A buzz of activity rippled through the merpeople, distracting her from her thoughts. Soon she saw Cedric swimming over, the large bubble around his head making him look oddly like an underwater astronaut. Within seconds, he had Cho out of her restraints and was swimming to the surface.

Well, there went that option.

She considered the remaining trio of hostages, a frown on her face. And the mersong was really fucking starting to get on her nerves, she thought absently.

So … Hermione or Fred?

She caught another movement out of the corner of her eye and turned. A flash of absolute horror struck her, and she backpedalled furiously, because a _monstrous_ motherfucking _shark_ was heading toward her – and did she mention it was fucking _huge_? Her mind was frantically trying to grasp some possible route of action that wouldn't culminate in her body being served up as a tartare _à la_ witch … Except, was that a pair of … legs?

Looking closer, she realised that it was not actually a shark, but Krum with a transfigured shark head. Slowly, when she was sure her heart wouldn't hammer its way out of her ribcage, she made her way back over to the hostages.

The Bulgarian was sawing away with a sharp rock at the rope holding Hermione, and was swimming away with her in minutes. Fuck, looked like Plan B was out too. She glided closer. There was really no other way for it – she would have to free red-headed menace. How was he causing mayhem even when he was bloody unconscious?

Liberal wand-waving and threatening glares later, she was advancing steadily toward the glimmer of light that indicated the surface, grumbling bubbles of displeasure at the weight of her 'most sorely missed' possession. Dumping him unceremoniously on the banks, she treaded water as she waited for her gills to disappear. A terrified scream rent through the air, and a hysterical Fleur was pushing through droves of students and professors alike.

"Gabrielle! Où est Gabrielle? Is she safe? Someone 'elp 'er! She is under zere, _please!_ "

A sinking feeling in her stomach, the crowd's murmurs faded as she thought of the little girl, pale and lifeless looking, still drifting in the dark depths of the lake. Sighing in resignment, she dove back into the water for a second time, berating herself all the while.

The merpeople appeared to still be cowed by her previous warning, as she had no trouble retrieving the silver-haired girl. Who thought it was a good idea to put this blonde pipsqueak down here anyway? As she grabbed the girl by her waist, she realised that the water was starting to feel cold again, slipping its icy fingers over her skin. Oxygen was beginning to become a bit of an issue, what with her chest feeling like an elephant was sitting on it. Bloody buggering _fuck_ , this kid better not be any relation of Malfoy – who was the only other non-Fleur person with hair like this – because she was not dying for one of them, no matter how cute and tiny.

Putting all her might into kicking singlemindedly, she almost didn't notice when she broke through the surface. She floated there for a moment, heaving great gulping breaths of precious, wondrous air. When she felt sufficiently rejuvenated, she swam over to the shore with the coughing and spitting girl who was now hanging onto her neck, who was doing a decent impression of a limpet.

" _Gabrielle!_ "

Fleur fell onto her knees by the water's edge, pulling the girl out and onto the land. Hands reached toward her and hauled her out as well, and soon she found herself wrapped firmly in a wonderfully fluffy towel, ears steaming as Madam Pomfrey force-fed her a Pepper Up. Hermione and Ron had made their way over exclaiming excitedly ("Harry, you did it! Gillyweed – oh, I should've thought of it _ages_ ago!") and incredulously ("Bloody hell, Harry, _Fred_?"), thumping her back without pause.

Her attention was suddenly grabbed by Fleur, who had forced her bodily around. She was about to voice her displeasure at the rough handling, when she noticed that the part-veela was gazing at her almost … adoringly. Well, this was awkward …

"You saved my seester's life," Fleur spoke, sounding awed. "Even though you could 'ave left 'er zere. You could 'ave _died_ , but you saved 'er."

Harry was starting to feel rather hot under the collar. "Er, no biggie, really," she said, smiling weakly.

Fleur lunged forward and hugged her tight, before kissing each of her cheeks. Whispering a husky and heartfelt "thank you," she released her and resumed hovering over her sister.

Hermione and Ron were staring at her; Ron looked a bit jealous, but Hermione's mouth was twitching in amusement. Harry felt the two spots on her cheek burn where Fleur kissed her ( _kissed_ her!), and would not have been surprised if it remained red for the rest of the week.

"Not one word," she hissed in warning at a gleeful Hermione, who replied with a wide-eyed 'who, me?' expression – which was _hers_ , dammit. Sniffing, she turned around, only to freeze in her tracks.

Fred, fiery haired, freckled, sparkly-eyed Fred – she was starting to feel a bit dizzy from the heat now – was eyeing her quietly, a strange look on his face. She was barely suppressing the wild urge to scream. _He knew!_ He had to. Oh Godric, where was Lockhart when you needed a swift _Obliviate_?

"So," he broke the silence, "I'm the one you'll sorely miss?"

She was fairly sure her knees were trembling now. "Fuck. I mean, er, well, you see … About that …"

Merlin knew what she was going to say – something exceptionally stupid, no doubt – but she was saved from her foot-in-mouth syndrome by a pair of chapped lips pressing into hers. Boy, was she thanking all her past selves for the unbelievably amazing karma she must have accumulated for getting her to this point.

With Fred's mouth moulded to hers and his fingers tangled in her dripping, knotted hair, she couldn't help but think that the day was starting to look up after all.

* * *

 **A/N:** AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Ahem.

Fem Harry, in all her potty-mouthed glory! I'd wanted to explore a female Harry for absolutely _ages_ , and so this finally happened. Can I just say how much I enjoyed writing this? Because it was ridiculously fun. (Until the very end, at which point my face was burning red enough to rival Harry's - why do I torture myself writing romance anyway?)

Leave comments below and let me know what you thought! And prompts are welcome! :)


	6. Played It to the Beat (HarryDraco)

Notes: 4th year (GoF), Angst/Drama (Harry/Draco)

* * *

 **Played It to the Beat**

* * *

Theo gave him a congratulatory clap on the back, grinning in delight. "I knew you could do it, Draco! Potter told you he loves you, didn't he?" He looked over at Draco, gaze full of admiration. "You know, Draco, I don't think there's anyone more Slytherin than you, not even …"

He trailed off, his eyes on a spot over Draco's shoulder.

An ominous feeling came over Draco as he slowly turned around.

Harry stood before him, looking lost and not a little scared. "Draco," he whispered beseechingly, "is it true?"

Draco swallowed. Slow realisation was dawning in Harry's eyes, and Draco almost looked away at the hurt shining through. As Harry's face crumpled with betrayal, Draco realised with a sudden surreal clarity, _I have broken Harry Potter's heart._

His eleven-year-old self would have crowed in triumph, but now, in that moment, only a bitter taste of ash was left in his mouth.

He tried to get his mouth to move, but his voice wouldn't work. "Har—" he croaked.

"Don't you _dare_ ," Harry spat furiously, even as his eyes continued to fill with tears. "Don't you _dare_ say a _word_ , Draco Malfoy. Are you satisfied with yourself? Are you _proud_? You've managed to trick the 'Boy Who Lived' well and truly. Did you have a good laugh with your mates watching pitiful Potter trail behind you like a starstruck fool?"

A crowd was congregating around them now. Whispers of "Malfoy" and "bet" reached his ears, and by Harry's flinch, so had he.

"Was it _fun_ to see the Horntail almost burn me to a crisp? Was it _fun_ watching me trip through practice so I wouldn't step on your feet at the Yule Ball?" He sneered, an ugly thing Draco had never seen before on the Gryffindor. "Did you enjoy opening my Christmas present and knowing that I put my entire heart into it? Did you pass around my bumbling letters and read out my pathetic confessions to the Slytherin common room?"

Harry stepped forward, dragging Draco to him by the scruff of his robes. "Did you, _Malfoy_?"

Green eyes bored into Draco, hurt and tearful and demanding all at once. A twinge of something—surely not regret?—tugged inside him. _I'm sorry_ , thought Draco, faintly surprised at the emotion. _Maybe I should have_ —

Before anything could be said, Granger and the Weasel shouldered their way through the throng. "Harry," the bushy-haired girl said softly.

Draco couldn't mask his distaste as she placed a calming hand on the other boy. A sudden flash of fury sparked in Harry's eyes, and Draco braced himself for a fist to his face. Just as abruptly, his robes were released and Harry's face became more blank than when Mad-Eye had _Imperius_ -ed them.

He took a half-turn to leave, then changed his mind and turned back around. "You will _never_ speak to me again," he whispered, so muted that even the rest of the golden trio wouldn't have heard. "Because if you do, Draco, I swear I will return the pain you have caused me a hundred times over."

With a last burning yet devastated glare, Harry stalked past the students gathered around, flanked by Granger and the Weasel.

The mutterings continued as their audience dispersed. Draco watched as Harry's back receded from view and rubbed his face tiredly, feeling suddenly drained.

Theo's laugh jerked him out of his thoughts. "You showed him!" He smirked with relish. "Pathetic Potter—"

" _Shut up_ ," Draco hissed lowly. Theo must have caught the hard glint in his eyes, because he didn't say another word the entire walk back to the common room.

* * *

 **A/N:** Instead of working on literally every other fic I've got hanging, this is what manifests. I blame it on all the Drarry I've been reading this past month …

I promise I'm working on the others – time just hasn't been a very available resource to me of late, what with most of my time spent at the hospital this year (i.e. waking up at the crack of dawn and returning home in time to sleep).

Anyway, please leave your thoughts below! For those of you who celebrate it, I hope you had a lovely Easter! And for those who don't … hope you enjoyed the days off and a ton of chocolate! :p


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